Mistletoe was not plant—it was mystery. Growing on tree branches, never touching earth, green in winter when host tree was bare, neither tree nor herb but parasite living between categories. This liminal nature made it sacred, made it powerful, made it the all-heal (uile-íce)—the remedy for everything, the cure beyond cures.
The Druids harvested mistletoe with elaborate ceremony, cutting it with golden sickle on the sixth night after the new moon, catching it in white cloth before it could touch ground. This was not superstition but recognition: mistletoe’s power came from its betweenness, and preserving that quality required ritual precision. Mistletoe that touched earth lost its aerial power, became ordinary, ceased to be medicine.
The harvested mistletoe treated fertility problems, epilepsy, ulcers, and poisoning. But beyond specific ailments, mistletoe was panacea—a word derived from Greek but applicable to Celtic understanding. The all-heal could address any sickness, provided it was used correctly, with proper respect, under appropriate circumstances.